Wind Horse

     His name was Dan and he was a gift from my grandfather (to the “joy” of my parents). Dan was an old mid size horse my grandfather happened upon. He would stay at my grandfather’s farm and I could ride him when we visited. The first visit I procured a box of sugar cubes. After all, horses like sugar cubes and this was our first meeting. I wanted to make sure Dan liked me. It was over an hour’s drive to my grandparents. All the way I watched the Alabama pine trees zoom by the window and dreamed of riding fast and furious through the clover fields and herding my grandfather’s cows. The more I dreamed the more sugar cubes I consumed. When we arrived there were two left.
     My grandfather lifted me up on the saddle and off Dan and I went…a nice steady walk. That was Dan’s style. His years of running fast through the clover fields had passed and the cows continued to graze. My dream? I never noticed. I was too busy listening to the wind of the clover’s dance beneath our speed. There was something so totally visceral about learning how to match your body, your posture, your tension and your movement to the horse’s body. It becomes a dance with neither partner leading. Dan and I would dance as often as we could and each dance lasted an eternity.
     Native Americans and Buddhism both have legends of the Wind Horse. For the Buddhist, the Wind Horse is the summoning of energy, prayer, healing and rising above. Many of the Native American stories talk of a horse who would care for and carry the wounded to safety. The Wind Horse is no more in these legends because he felt the love of an injured boy and together they made a final journey. Whether summoning energy, raising prayer flags for healing and restoration, rising above the shackles of earthly misperception, or, being touched by the stories and love of another, to ride the Wind Horse is to believe in something beyond yourself. It is a ride of trust beyond yourself. Like jumping off a cliff into the Ocean’s waters below, you simply let go and believe. You believe.
     I’ve often wondered what my father said to my grandfather as he sent me off, unsupervised, to ride my Wind Horse that first visit. I think, when I looked down with that child’s look of “Are you sure?” that I met the twinkle in my own eye as my grandfather smiled. And with that twinkle, that freedom, I sat off to ride my Wind Horse.
     Dan may have been my first Wind Horse but he was not the last. I have seen the Wind Horse in the eyes of those souls you meet and know your eyes have met before. I have seen the Wind Horse in my own closed eyes as the earth’s pain and those around me overwhelms me and I can do naught but summon the Wind Horse to heal us all. As profound as these experiences have been, and are, as rich as these rides are, the most visceral and powerful are those where I hear the pure laughter of a young girl with frizzy blonde hair riding the wind. She believes. She laughs, oh how she laughs. She summons the energy of all that is pure, the wind of love. And when one rides the Wind Horse, one never rides alone.

Sometimes....

     I stand and inhale the night sky. Today was a day of exhaling. Sometimes, sometimes, the only thing a person, a writer needs to write is “I love you.” To know you are not alone, to know you can hear the heart beats, to know the joy (and pain) of laughing … to know … it’s just that simple. And so with that I lay my pen down and smile.

Arthurian Morning

     The full moon greeted me as I stepped out the door, placing herself square in front of me so that I could not watch the road without watching her. She gathered her orchestra of violin clouds and sang with the CD.
     Illuminated stars became shattered pieces of my heart. Pieces offered in love and pieces taken in greed. Pieces taken for granted by myself and others.
     Turning right the moon plays tag and darts over to the left hiding behind trees and houses. When I turn left she dances to the other side, no longer leading, guiding and showing me the way. Why can she not stay in front and show me the way? Why can’t I drive towards her and slide on the Milky Way? Why can she not share a constellation with me? Why can she not spell out a word, just one, to tell me whether I travel the right path?
     A curve in the road places her square in my vision. Her full grin has now softened to a Mona Lisa smile. A knowing smile. A smile whose beam illuminates the metal on a building. For a brief moment the building’s side, a sliver, a piece, catches moon fire and glistens in a white brilliance. A sword.
     The hands of my spirit reach out and grab the sword. Like Arthur I brandish it against the night sky. The infirmities of age released, I thrust it into the blackness of the sky and claim it my own. The ram’s horns of war bellow and the pieces of my heart amass and are drawn towards the sword. My spirit wants to melt but stands strong, tall and poised commanding their return by my stature, my strength and my fearlessness.
     The pieces, now soldiers, encircle me. I set my face towards the moon with arms raised high. My warrior’s voice, deep and raspy from the years, bellows towards her waning presence, “If I am lost I shall travel in this good company. And if not lost I shall send them forth to find those who are.”
     I wait for her reply but none is heard. Dropping my arms my spirit inhales the night sky. I grab the sword still quivering from the force of my strength. Extracting it from the sky I thrust it back again shaking the sky. The pieces, the soldiers, like drops of mercury, go rolling across the night sky.
     Smiling, I return to my castle, my heart, my home. Entering the gates I order the guards to leave the drawbridge down. They look at me puzzled, concerned for my safety. A slight chuckle tickles my face. “The others will be back soon and with them, their friends.”